Things that can't wait
by A-Karana
Summary: As my subordinate he is a nightmare. As a man, and my former lover, he makes me tingle in ways he shouldn't...Set after Jenny got shot- and survived. AU


**This was written for round 12 of "Memories that remain" at the Madame Director community on LJ. The prompts for this one shot were:**

*** main**

*** justified**

*** "You never actually get used to it. You think you will but you never do." 3.13 Deception (Tony)**

**This is my first NCIS story. Hope it's ok-ish at least.**

**Things that can wait- and things that can't**

He is infuriating and never takes me serious. He also keeps alluding to Paris and our past. His mind never seems to leave the bedroom when he's around me. It keeps me wondering if that's all I was to him: A nice time in the bedroom.

I want to stop it and put him in his place; after all _I am_ the director no matter how often he, inappropriately, calls me 'Jen' in the office. As my subordinate he is a nightmare. As a man, and my former lover, he makes me tingle in ways he shouldn't.

In Paris I dreamed of a future with him. A girlish dream of a white picket fence, a dog, nights spent drinking bourbon and making love and little kids who have my hair and his eyes.

He never told me he loved me. He never went after me. He never fought for me. He never asked. Never understood. Never tried again.

However he countermands me, provokes me, ignores me or simply rubs my nose in his most recent conquests, achieving all of the above.

I was shocked to find out about his first wife and especially about his daughter. Kelly. A name I might have chosen for my own child if I ever had one.

He never showed me he loved me. Most likely he never did.

I wanted to tell him before hurrying off with Mike to finish what I messed up years ago.

Honestly, I wanted to tell him when I found out I was sick. I wanted to run to him, bury my face in his chest, let him hold me and tell me it's not true.

I couldn't.

Now here I am, lying in this hospital bed, trying to recover from not only several bullets that hit my body, but also from the poison that caused my sickness.

I know it's him, although my eyes are still closed when the door opens. It opens without a knock. No one else would waltz into my room like that but him.

"Hello Jethro," I say and my voice still sounds hoarse. It annoys me.

"Hey Jen," he replies and for a second I actually think I hear a slight shaking in his voice. I know better though- nothing scares him, not even me fighting for my life. Silence follows and I start contemplating opening my eyes, weighing the pros and cons of seeing him and knowing what facial expression he has against the headache I know will set in as soon as the light hits my pupils.

In the end my curiosity wins over the avoidance of pain. I can't help but groan once my eyelids open.

It takes a few seconds until my eyes get used to the bright light that streams into my room through the open blinds. I know it is enough time for him to wipe his expression blank. He can't hide the fatigue on his face though. Too little sleep, too much coffee. Even more than usual, it appears.

"You look tired," I say when he still doesn't speak and simply keeps staring at me from where he stands; still close to the door, barely inside the room. "You intend to flee, Jethro?" I try to get a reaction out of him. "It's not like I can really go after you at the moment." I look down at myself where all the bandages and casts are hidden by the bedcovers. The main hindrances of going after him are in plain sight: The IV that pumps all kinds of drugs into me, the catheter which still catches my blood that drips into it from my wounds and the nasal prongs that helps me breathe while my lungs are still too damaged to do the job fully on their own.

"Why didn't you talk to me, Jen?" he addresses the main issue without hesitating.

"Agent Gibbs," I sigh, trying to put some distance between us by using the formal addressing.

"Don't you think that's a justified question, Jen?" He puts emphasize on my name and comes closer. He puts the chair so close to my bed that our faces are closer than they should be. I can't do anything about it; I am tied to this bed and he knows it.

This time I remain silent and finally close my eyes when the stare of his blue ones gets too intense.

Electricity shoots through me when he suddenly touches my forehead and strokes a strand of my hair off my face.

"I thought I had lost you," he says, his fingers still resting against my skin- my cheek by now. This time I am sure that his voice is shaking and I open my eyes again.

"You would have managed. No more female boss for you," I try again to brush him off while he is still touching me. I don't even know why I do it. All I want to do is lean into his palm and rub my face against it.

"You never actually get used to it. You think you will, but you never do." He is being cryptic and it's too complicated for my drug induced brain. I can't follow him.

"I don't know what you are talking about." I tell him so.

"You thought you were dying. Is there really nothing left to say?" he asks me.

"You tell me. What would you have said if the roles had been reversed?" I question him back.

"I would have asked you why you keep choosing your career over me," he tells me. My gut clenches painfully at his words and for a second I think I'll get sick. What a bad time for not having my feelings under reign.

"You would not. You go out in the field every day, knowing you're putting your life on the line. You never asked me anything." The long reply costs me a lot of energy and my mouth feels dry. I lick my lips, intending to ask for water. He is faster and holds the glass to my mouth. Carefully I sip and I hate the slurping sounds I have to make.

"I am asking you now and I'm not dying." He puts the glass back on the white hospital night table and wipes the drop of water off my lips with his thumb.

"I like having a future with certain things," I manage saying, ignoring the crazy feeling in my stomach that only he can evoke.

"Why don't you think we could have a future?" Why is he bringing this up now, I ask myself instead, when my defenses are just as weak as my body? _That's exactly why_, my fuzzy mind answers its own question.

"You cannot compete with ghosts and memories," I say, but turn my head so I don't have to look at him anymore.

"I like the memories I have of us. Well, except the one when I found your Dear John letter." His voice is quiet and deep as he says this. It seems he missed my point. I am not commenting on it though, preferably choosing to remain silent once again.

"The ghost of Shannon is the one all of the women I was with had to face. But the memories of us were the only ones that ruined every relationship I had after Paris." His admission gets to me and I draw in a shaky breath. I am actually grateful that they took away the heart monitor hours ago, because the beeping would have given away the inner turmoil he sent me into.

"Still, you married afterwards," I point out. I can't help it.

"Jen, why are you doubting me? You're the one who ended us. You're the one who said there'd be no 'off the job'." In my head and in my heart I know the answer, but I bite my lip to keep it from slipping out. Damn him for forcing this talk onto me when I can't fight back.

"Damn it, Jenny, talk to me!" he suddenly yells at me and makes me jump in bed. I choke on my own saliva and start coughing. He is sitting on the edge of my bed a split second later and soothingly rubs my back. I am surprised when it actually works. Slowly I calm down and find myself in his arms; his right arm is wrapped around my shoulders and he stays on the bed.

His familiar scent is even stronger here in the hospital where everything else smells like antiseptics and drugs.

"I cannot lose you," he says while I am still concentrating on simply breathing regularly and steadily. He brushes his lips against my hair. I think I am imagining it at first, but then he does it again. He breathes me in and is pulling me closer. He wraps his arm tighter around me and I flinch. He touched the bullet wound on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes quietly and places another kiss on the crown of my head.

"It's ok. The shoulder wound isn't that bad," I reply and manage a tiny smile.

"I wasn't only talking about your shoulder. Forgive me for giving you reason to doubt me," Jethro says and I can tell that he is hesitating. He wants to say more, I know. "Reason to doubt how I feel about you," he spills and I am stunned into silence this time.

"Let me take you out on a date once you're out of here," he requests and my brain goes into overdrive. I desperately want to say yes.

Yet, I know him and I know myself and I am convinced that it could never work. It didn't when I was his subordinate and now I am his boss. Sometimes, however, what you know and what you feel aren't the same things. Still not speaking I rest my head against his shoulder and let the silence say the things I am not yet able to say.

I never really got used to a life without him. I thought I would, but I never did. Just when the words start travelling from my mind to my tongue the effects of the drugs set in again and I fall asleep. And he is there and he is holding me to him. And the rest can wait.

End


End file.
